The Moment
by setphaserstosass
Summary: DISCONTINUED."Being Captain is a job that routinely raises his heart rate far past what Bones would like it to be. In this instance however, his heart rate keeps climbing for another reason entirely. His first officer, to be precise." K/S
1. The Expectations

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello all you incredible star Trek ff writers and readers out there! This is my first time writing a full-length story, so I'm a little new to this. It is slash, folks. Don't like, don't read.** **As always, flames will be used to toast my marshmallows. Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. If I did, I would have lots of money. And i do not.**

Expectations

Jim really doesn't know how it happened. He wasn't expecting it, no, not in the slightest. What he was expecting when he accepted this job was copious piles of paperwork, the best crew in the fleet, adventure, and lot of hard work, to be honest. He expected long hours. An uncomfortable chair to sit in. Listening to yet another of Scotty's (hilarious, albeit filthily dirty) machinery jokes. (And he was right-he got all of that in spades.) A common assumption outside of Starfleet was that being Captain of the Enterprise entailed nothing more than giving orders, looking sharp, and exploring new planets. Dead wrong, of course. Being Captain is a (hideously stressful, incredibly amazing, profoundly rewarding) difficult job. He is responsible for hundreds of people, and his actions, his very human, imperfect decisions, affect lives. It is work that routinely raises his heart rate far past what Bones would like it to be. In this instance however, his heart rate keeps climbing for another reason entirely. Which brings him back to square one- Jim simply didn't see this one coming.

He _expected_ mountains of monotonous paperwork he would be obliged to sign. (He signs off on everything from new phasers to toiletries.) He was _not at all_ surprised when nearly half of the new-to-the-federation life forms they routinely encountered became viciously incensed and attempted to kill him and/or other members of his crew (particularly the redshirts for no reason he can fathom- perhaps the color incites violence? He really has no idea) because he's always had a penchant for attracting trouble. However, he, James T. Kirk, the infallible, senselessly irritating, dazzlingly handsome (so he often tells Uhura, because it never fails to irritate her) really really really really really wasn't expecting _this_. "This" being, in the loosest terms, his First Officer. "This" being, in the most concise and truthful terms, his growing attraction to his First Officer that, as of the past three months, has been making him feel a little too warm whenever the Vulcan glances his way. (How many Vulcans does it take to make Captain Kirk blush? Just one, it seems. Only one.)

His pulse, for no real reason at all, tends to speed up when he hears a familiar voice say his name (it took two years to get Spock to stop calling him Captain all the time). And Spock has an uncanny ability to make the tight feeling in his chest after a difficult day of work disperse into a warm feeling like he's drunk a cup of cocoa (and what is he, a schoolgirl? He's started using beverages in romantic metaphors, but he can't bring himself to care).

It's getting ridiculous. Since that stupid, horrible, amazing night, he's been beginning to feel this silly, incomprehensible, intoxicating, wholly un-logical attraction _All. The. Fucking. Time._ That rush of affection when he sees Spock's toothbrush lying perfectly parallel to the wall in the bathroom they share together. When the beard suppressor ran out when they were in the Delta quadrant and Spock had a (incomprehensibly bewilderingly attractive) five o'clock shadow for all of twelve (glorious) hours before the new shipment arrived. And especially when his Science Officer moves a chess piece to capture his Queen, looks at him with eyes that are darker than the space outside, and quietly says "Check" with a smoldering satisfaction that by all Vulcan's accounts of non-emotiveness (is that even a word?) should really not exist. (But it does. It _so_ does. ) As Kirk leans back in his chair and admits defeat yet again (their games are generally fifty-fifty now- Jim wins a little under half of the time and Spock often wipes the board with him), and as the Vulcan's eyes glimmer with humor, he finds himself thinking suddenly that those who believe chess is a cold, logical game have obviously never played it with Spock.

And if he admits it to himself- (which he finally did three months and seventeen days ago, as he lays in bed with his mind racing and finally addressed why , #1, he has a compulsive desire to get his shirt ripped off by random attackers whenever he is in the Vulcan's general vicinity, and, #2, he felt oddly buoyant the day Uhura and Spock decided to shift their relationship back to being purely platonic friends)-the truth is...

well, the truth is that with Spock, board games have really never been hotter.

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	2. The Explanations

**Author's Note: Here's a shoutout to my first three reviewers, Lyra Vega, kathrynw221291, and droopydog! You lot are amazing, and this chapter is dedicated to you guys.**

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**Explanations

For all the time he regularly spends there, it is nevertheless a documented, well-known fact that Jim Kirk loathes sickbay. It is, conversely, an almost unknown fact as to why this is so, and Jim likes it that way, unknown, because some secrets are better off kept to yourself. He masks his unease at the shots and the sterilized instruments by putting on an air of long suffering (Bones tells him it makes him look like a lost Beagle) and by telling a slew of jokes to everyone present.

(Most people think he dislikes it just to irritate Bones, but it is so much more complicated than a game between friends. Bones knows, though. Sometimes when he's waiting there, on the edge of the bed with its crisp white sheets and he's turning his communicator over and over in his hands, Jim thinks he sees him glance his way. Sometimes his usually quick hands pause over a painful gash for a moment, and then he returns to cleaning it, but just a little bit gentler than before. Sometimes he sees an expression in his friend's eyes that says he understands that his protestations against treatment run a little deeper than a desire to needle his best friend. But Bones never asks him, never demands an explanation in his usual gruff way, and Jim is more grateful than words can describe.)

However, his utter hatred of the entire place still does not render him without need of its services, and so Sickbay is exactly where he gets dragged when he's broken another rib or strained his wrist or done whatever it is this time that has prompted Bones to drag him bodily through the halls and make him sit on one of those goddamn white beds. A few times Bones has even resorted to a soporific hypospray, that cheating bastard. Still, Bones is his best friend- a wry man with surgeon's hands, a hint of a beard, and a perpetual scowl, who underneath the rough exterior has a heart of gold. (Not that he won't deny it.) Bones was the only one at the academy who didn't give a damn who his father had been and also wouldn't put up with his shit. He tells it like it is and doesn't let him down easy when the truth is hard, but Bones's advice is always worth the good-natured sting that accompanies it, and Jim is a better Captain for listening. He values Bone's friendship more than almost anything in the world...

but he still fucking hates Sickbay.

And so, (before the events of That Night) exactly three months and _nine_ days ago, after diplomatic efforts with the latest alien species were established after a grueling 72 hour meeting (the natives talked extremely slowly and had horrifying table manners), when he gets back to the Enterprise he refuses to leave the bridge and report to Sickbay. Arguing with Bones, he points out that if he skips the shift he agreed to work, one of the lead Gamma shift command track will be woken up early to take his shift because half of the Beta shift personnel have come down with Levodian flu, so he'll deprive that person of sleep and since Jim's already been awake for 70.3 hours, two more can't possibly hurt and isn't the sickbay pretty full already? His argument, while sound in theory, fails dismally when Kirk fails to muffle a yawn in the middle of it. And yet he still wins when in a strange sort of voice , McCoy, after five minutes of impassioned shouting, stops midsentence, face still flushed, and backs down. Kirk is so bitterly tired he doesn't notice the (rightfully terrifying) look in one Leonard McCoy's eyes. Pavel does though, and his thin shoulders tremble with the lightest of shivers before he turns in his chair and winks at Nyota across the Bridge. It seems, Pavel thinks gleefully to himself, that the good doctor is employing a new strategy.

"All right, Jim. Finish the shift, and then get some sleep," says the thing that has obviously taken over McCoy's brain (because when has he ever agreed to what Jim just proposed?) and the thing that was once Bones but now might secretly be an alien leaves the bridge and leaves Kirk to his command. Kirk sits down in the straight-backed chair and for eighteen truly impressive minutes, he manages to complete ten of the twelve holo files that require his signature, record his Captain's log (it doesn't count as off-topic if he happens to mention the scary, stunning spectacle that was the leader from the other planet slurping up something that looked like chunky gravy with its sucker-tentacle-thing, right?), and get started on the paperwork (well, the files are all on his PADD so technically they aren't paper but oh Gods now he's started arguing with himself and he wants to sleep more than anything in the world and why is Spock staring at him? He's talking to himself _quietly_.) For more than a quarter of an hour, Jim Kirk arduously maintains a state of semi-efficient, exhausted half-consciousness.

It doesn't last long.

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Review? Pretty please with slash on top?


	3. The Gamble

Author's Note: Hello again, my darlings! Here's another chappie.

The Gamble

Uhura has never been much of a gambler. She prefers to hold all the cards and know all possible knowledge about the situation at hand before she makes a move. She's a strategist; a fact-checker, nose-to-the-grindstone kind of officer. Her work is important to her- she takes her job seriously, and many of her fellow cadets at the academy thought her to be rather a stickler for the rules. But time has brought temperance to Nyota Uhura- an understanding that while rules were made for a reason, sometimes a situation is best handled by unabashedly ignoring them. Although Uhura still demands excellence from herself and others, two years in space have taught her that fun is an important part of work.

So, when Kirk stumbles onto the Bridge, bleary-eyed but determined after his (clearly audible even from three corridors away) fight with Bones, and a message arrives on the screen of her personal PADD about the betting pool, she looks up from her console. Sulu is grinning, his hands poised over the piloting board. Chekov's mouth keeps curving up at the corners as he diligently, or so it would seem, makes an adjustment to his calculations on the vertical holo-screen. Spock is at his station, apparently taking no notice of the proceedings. His stance -standing at the science console with his back to her-would suggest animosity or disapproval to most, but she knows him better than that. His shoulders are relaxed. A moment later, another message appears on her screen, and she smiles into the palm of her hand. Spock has placed a wager as well.

Weighing her choices, Uhura glances at the Captain, who is now mumbling something incoherent for his report, and types a number on her PADD. Glancing covertly at each of her friends, she blinks slowly like a cat, lips curving into a devious smile, and presses send. All possible information about the situation at hand has been accounted for, she reassures herself, and she has made a very well informed guess.

Now all they have to do is wait.

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**Author's Note: Your reviews are what inspire me to keep writing. :) **

**Let me know if you loved it, hated it, were confused- I'd love to hear from every single one of you.**


	4. The Wins and the Losses

**Author's Note: (giggles manically Here is some pre-slash! **

"Yes! I win!" whispers a voice suddenly on the Bridge. "I told you, Hikaru, the good money was on twenty minutes!"

Chekov is nearly jumping up and down in his excitement. Instead of being dull from lack of rest, sleep deprivation seems to only have made him more excitable. Pale blue eyes gleaming, he begins an impromptu (but also completely silent) victory dance as the rest of the crew turn as one to look not at him, but at the Captain, and then at their chronometers. Sulu curses, Uhura smiles triumphantly, and Spock silently transfers credits to both of his friend's accounts, raising an eyebrow. However, the show of humor does little to lessen his inner concern.

Jim Kirk is asleep. Sprawled in the Captain's chair in a position that looks appallingly uncomfortable, his face cupped in one hand, he is, as Sulu mumbles grudgingly, "out like a light."

After the credits have switched hands, so to speak, attention turns back to the Captain. Sulu is all for leaving him there for the duration of the shift, but then Chekov pales. "Suppose he sleepwalks," the Russian whiz kid says a little nervously. "Does anyone know if he sleepwalks? Just one unfortunately placed button and..."

"And an innocent asteroid bites the dust," Bones announces dryly, standing in the doorway. He glances around the room, running his fingers a little wearily across his forehead, and continues talking more quietly, working through the problem.

"No, how bout Spock takes Jim back to his quarters. It shouldn't be too difficult for that green-blooded hobgoblin to manage, now should it?"

"Indeed not," Spock affirms with a nod of his head. He looks at McCoy, and adds calmly, with the lightest of stresses:"My..._superior_...strength would be well put to use in such an endeavor." In an entirely illogical and yet profoundly satisfying moment, he enjoys the Doctor's responding grimace. In the softest of voices, Spock says something under his breath. It is a terran term, used commonly in popular culture, Jim has assured him.

"Spock: 1," whispers the Vulcan to himself, straight-faced. "McCoy: 0."

After he says it, Spock thinks of the time in the Gaming Room when Jim decided to teach him slang. Initially, he had been incredulous...

_"That phrase is an extremely illogical insult. Humans really include it among their terms of slander and ridicule?" _

_"Frequently, Spock."_

_"When is it used?"_

_"During bar fights, family reunions, lover's spats; you say it when someone knocks you over in a crowd, when you order food in a Klingon resturant and it's still kicking, when you're joking around with friends...you name it. But it's most frequently used after someone displays that they are an insensitive git about something." Jim smirks._

_"Presumably you have often heard this term used in reference to yourself." Spock inquires, the hint of a smile ghosting around his mouth, and Kirk nods emphatically._

_"Loads of times."_

_"Would you use it in a sentence?"_

_Kirk had immediately began to pantomime an interaction between himself and a waiter._

_"I asked for Cardassian fire tea, not this trash! This tastes like mud from the garbage heap outside! Oh yeah, that's how you feel about it, huh? Well, up yours, buddy. __**Up yours**__.'"_

_"And that's how you say it," Jim had finished, his face red from yelling, and he had smiled at the Vulcan. And Spock had stared at him, wondering again about the man's convoluted (consistently genius) thought processes; he imagines Jim's mind, quite illogically, as a stream of ideas flowing in and around each other, like interwoven strands of a jumbled ball of twine. A strange, overly tactile, adrenaline-junkie ball of twine with a death wish who becomes 'cuddly' when inebriated and whose thoughts, for a long time now, have been the cipher that Spock cannot solve; the enigma that continues to be a puzzle._

"Ahem."

Spock mentally shakes himself. He has been lost in thought; the slip-up must not happen again. He tunes into the conversation; the Doctor is speaking.

"Thanks for comming me," the Doctor relays brusquely to Uhura. "Looks like the old country doctor is the one winning the battle of wills. Let's save the asteroids- for fuck's sake, take him back to his quarters. I'll head over there-" His communicator beeps nastily and he reads the message and scowls- "... in a few minutes. Some grease monkey novice down on the Engineering Deck just burned his hand on some goddamn piping." His thick black hair, normally neat, is sticking out in all directions, and his sleeves have been shoved up past his elbows, not properly folded over the way he likes them, notices Uhura. But he's entitled to a little unkemptness-the poor man's been treating Lavodian flu among the crewmembers for nearly 14 hours past his shift now. She frowns, but out of concern, not anger. (Bones is a terrible hypocrite, ordering Kirk to sleep. Truly, he ought to be in bed himself.)

McCoy leaves the bridge hurriedly, with one last glance at his unconscious friend, and the crew return to their duties.

Spock, with many eyes on him, hoists the Captain up from the chair. His friend does not stir in his new position draped over his shoulder, and a collective sigh is released from everyone present. Spock ascertains that his grip on the man's legs is good, and then walks to the lift. He tries to forget exactly who it is he is carrying, but Jim's cool skin and soft breathing make such a thing impossible. The proximity is startling, and though he has attempted to make it as professional as the situation can be made, blood rushes to the tips of his pointy ears. He prays Nyota will not notice.

But it seems he has no luck. Before the lift closes, another figure steps hesitantly inside. The doors close; he indicates the floor desired, and the lift starts, but his hope is short-lived. In a move so reminiscent of earlier times that his breathing accelerates from the recollections (Vulcan destroyed; Amanda's eyes in the last moment), Nyota pauses the lift. He stares straight ahead, tries not to met her eyes, and tries not to think about the fact that Jim smells like sweat and mint and Starfleet detergent and the sharp, clean tang of snow from the planet they've recently negotiated with.

He fails miserably.

"I know we make light of it," Nyota says suddenly, and he flinches, "but sometimes," she pauses, gesturing at the Captain's prone form, and then says more quietly, "on a personal level, I hate how much he gives of himself for this job."

He is surprised. It is unlike her to be so direct- an attribute that likely stems from her fatigue.

Nyota rambles on, making no sense at all and simultaneously the best sense she's ever made. "Everything he's got comes to the table. It's that extra something that makes the Enterprise have the lowest mortality rates and the highest success percentages on away missions, and i wouldn't change that for anything. But it makes me think. He'd give anything for this ship; the crew. And we'd give everything for him."

Spock would give anything, he knows. He stares resolutely ahead and, trembling, wonders how long this has been true.

"When I first met him, Jim Kirk was the last person I ever would have thought I'd respect." Nyota says, undeterred by his silence.

"And now…" She trails off, looking down at her hands, but she doesn't need to finish the sentence. She steps in front of him, circumventing Kirk's legs, and lifts his chin with one brown hand. The look conveys more than words can ever hope to, and he is the first to glance away.

"You feel the same about the Captain as I do," Nyota whispers, then grins slightly to herself at her own words.

She starts the lift again, content in her discontent. He knows exactly how she feels.

When she is gone, he stands there in the lift for a moment more, stricken. He attempts to understand exactly what Nyota's meant and why it has unsettled him so, but he can initially define nothing. He replays the conversation over in his memory- and his breath halts for a moment, then resumes. In a flash of understanding, he realizes her error, and sways slightly. At the movement, Jim sighs, and mumbles something in his sleep. The tenderness this small exhalation provokes nearly brings him to his knees. He needs to meditate, but right now, he's drowning. This...feeling...it feels like it's taking over every part of him. The coolness of Jim's skin, the smell of snow. His head spins.

_"You feel the same about the Captain as I do." _

The lift slows, gradually coming to a stop. But a moment before the doors open and a professional, poker-faced Vulcan steps out, carrying on his back the love of his life, he mumbles something, actually mumbles, two words to himself in the white light.

_"Not exactly."_


	5. The Shoes: Part One

**Author's Note: I squealed when i wrote this. The idea for this chapter was my inspiration for the story.**

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The first thing he becomes aware of is a pounding headache- the kind that pulses in step with your heartbeat and feels like someone is hitting you in the head with an anvil at regular intervals. This headache is not particularly helped by the fact that he is hanging upside down. For a moment he thinks he's back on Thiristher, (the carnival planet where he was captured on one of his first away missions) being hung by his ankles again, (god he fucking hated that planet. They kept asking him if he knew how to juggle) but then he opens his eyes to the (blinding, painful) light and realizes that he's still on ship. He's being carried in a fireman's lift- his upper body has been slung over someone's shoulders so his head is at the level of their lower back. They smell good- like spice.

It takes him almost a minute to come to these basic, primary conclusions. He feels quite unlike himself- as if he is on a merry-go-round of 21st century Earth: everything, even the dull colors of the ceiling paint, seems unnaturally bright, everything seems to be moving a little, breathing almost, and he's horribly dizzy. His eyes close.

The first thing he sees when he next wakes is a pair of shoes, because he is still draped over the person's shoulder like a bag of flour. They are conspicuously shiny, Starfleet shoes. He can only see the heels of the shoes, because the shoes are attached (thankfully) to a pair of legs. The person attached to the legs is standing in front of a door and muttering something. Pressing buttons. He hears the tiny key tones in different combinations. Like music, he thinks, or would think if he wasn't so tired; his head feels as if someone has scooped out his brain with a spoon. There isn't much room for thinking, only feeling. The arm and hand holding onto him are warm; the lights are too white; his head is buzzing and the tips of his fingers are thrumming unpleasantly with pins and needles from being upside down too long.

The voice says something again. It's a low voice, steady sounding, and pleasant, and he feels it rather than hears it from the person's chest. The tone of the rumbling sounds…unhappy, but does not sort itself out into words for him to understand. The tones of the buttons ping again and then there is a whoosh and the rumble sounds pleased and they are moving again. He accepts the movement like a sleepy child acknowledges the frequent stops and starts of a car on a long trip; there is nothing to worry about. Someone knows where they are going.

And now, his eyelids fluttering, he takes in, in brief flashes, the shoes again, the doorway, a chest of drawers with a holocube on top with changing pictures, clothes on the floor, and then the someone removes him from their shoulder in one easy movement and gently lays him on top of the bed. Something like incense and yet not and the comforting aroma of Starfleet soap sweeps over him as his head reaches the pillow. It conveys to him an almost overwhelming sense of safety and home and familiarity, though he cannot place it, that he sinks onto the blanket like a rag doll, every part of his body relaxed. The someone moves again, footsteps quiet, and the lights dim and the ache in his head subsides somewhat, and with the lowering of pain comes the welcome ability of basic cognition.

He's in his quarters, and the last thing he remembers is being on the Bridge and the feelings of achy exhaustion permeating every bone in his body. Falling asleep. He fell asleep. Who has the conn? Ship…maybe the ship's in danger. How long has he been asleep?

Jim struggles up into wakefulness, trying to open his eyes, get out of bed. A hand gently but firmly prevents him from rising and the face of his first officer comes into view. The Vulcan's gaze meets his in the half light and Spock's face swims in and out of focus, pale and tense-looking and Jim tries to make him understand what he has to do, he has to get back to the bridge. Spock, he thinks. Spock. The ship, that's the important… his thoughts are running together into an incomprehensible mess, but this must be understood.

"The ship…is the ship…"

Spock takes his wrist, and the man's hand is welcome fire against Kirk's arm, and he doesn't even have the presence of mind to see the oddness in that Spock is touching him, not a clap on the back or a hand on the shoulder but skin to skin. He's so tired it's as good as if he were drunk out of his mind; it's unlikely he'll remember anything in the morning.

"Negotiations are complete, Captain; Enterprise is safe. In your absence, I will man the conn." Spock's normally un-inflected voice is softer than usual, somehow, and warm, and everythingisallright and he can sleep.

Brilliantly blue eyes meet black in a wordless expression of thank you, and then Spock releases his wrist suddenly and the hands, carefully this time to touch no centimeter of skin, lower him back on the pillows.

Jim sinks back onto the coverlet. A pocket of air plays coldly on his face as the door to his quarters closes; and then darkness furthers itself on the inside of his eyelids and his mind and he is once more deeply asleep.

Even after Spock is gone, the feeling of safety and the woody scent of incense linger lightly in the air.


	6. The Shoes: Part Two

**Author's Note: Two chapters in two days. Feel loved. Feel verrrry loved. :)**

**Music: Wire to Wire by Razorlight**

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The Shoes: Part Two

_"How do you love on a night without feelings?/_

_She says "Love? I hear sound, I see fury."_

_-Wire To Wire_

They are an ordinary pair of shoes. Nothing about them hints of their true importance. They are Starfleet dress shoes- not the work boots he normally wears- those boots are lying by his dresser in a pile where he threw them after work. These are black, old-fashioned, highly-shined, lace-up shoes. The ones he wore to the negotiations and was still wearing on the bridge last night.

Jim stares at them, memorizing every last detail of their appearance. Like a painter studying a face, trying to capture the person's exact expression and the feelings that have prompted it, he looks at them. There is a slight scuff near the heel of the right; the right one is slightly shinier than the left; the laces are thin and black and droop over each side of the shoes, but beyond the second row of holes, they are still laced up.

Beyond these observations, there is nothing detectably different about them. It is how he feels about them that changes things.

Jim Kirk has never been a careful man, in all senses of the word. His room back when he lived with Winona and Frank (his room, not his home. His home was never there) was always a pit. He isn't the sort of person that really adheres to niceties. If it's clean, that's good enough for him. And that's why, as he gets out of bed, cusses out Bones to himself without any real anger (it feels so good to have slept), and makes his way blearily to the shower, his eyes fall on something so strange, so unexpected, that he stops dead.

His dress shoes are sitting neatly at the foot of his bed, laces loose, and his socks are folded neatly beside them. He pauses. He takes a breath. He stares.

It isn't anything big. It's nothing that anyone else but him would consider significant, but, inexplicably, his throat tightens.

_Jim Kirk raised himself. Winona was always off-planet. For a long time, he thought it was his fault- the reason that she never seemed pleased to see her son. That maybe he hadn't been good enough. That it was become of him that she sighed and wept, that her visits eventually became shorter and further apart._

_It was at the last Christmas that he'd known. They'd exchanged gifts. His was clumsily wrapped, and she'd opened it slowly, pulling off the paper in meticulous pieces to avoid ripping it, breaking the tape. _

_She couldn't meet his eyes, and left right after dinner. _

_He remembers sitting at the table after Frank had gone, looking at the remnants of the wrapping paper still lying upright at her place setting. He laid his head down on the tablecloth. By the light of the candles, from there, the paper she had so carefully opened still looked whole, like a candy wrapper hollowed out to look as if there was still a sweet inside. The shadows flickered over it, and the broken paper box seemed to shrink, and then to swell, and to shrink again in the shifting light._

_He could almost imagine the present was inside it, waiting to be opened. But it was only an illusion; the inside was empty. Hollow. _

_It was at that instant that Jim Kirk understood his mother. _

_He blew out the candles one by one and left the table. He knew, this time, that his mother was never coming back._

There was never anyone who made Jim's lunches, or picked pebbles out his knees when he fell and washed the cuts with soap and hissed out of sympathy for the pain. There was never anyone like that. No one bothered. The only ones who cared were his teachers, and so he did his best to make them proud of him. To deserve their praise.

His grades were perfect.

His home life was not.

And so he stares at the shoes, with their shiny black laces and the scuffed up bottoms, and he swallows. He can't explain it, not even to himself, but the closest approximation of what he feels right now is…wanted. He feels, for perhaps only the second or third time in his life, like someone actually cares about him.

And he doesn't remember much of last night but he doesn't need to. Alone in his quarters, Jim Kirk smiles.

No one else but Spock would ever fold socks quite so rigidly.

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**Author's Note: I am considering writing the scene where Spock takes off Kirk's shoes from Spock's POV, because in my head, it is too cute for words. Is that something you lot would be interested in reading? Also, I would love to hear what YOU want to see in a slash fic. (But not too much naughtiness, thanks. This fic will not exceed a T.)**

**Reviews to writers are like food to Tribbles. If given reviews, this fic may take over the Enterprise! Moooahahaha! Errr, not really.**

**But seriously. Review.**


	7. The Dreams and the Wishes

**Author's Note: It is now almost two in the morning, but i really wanted to get this written and posted. So here is Spock's pont of view on the shoes incident- i hope i did it justice. We are getting into some real plot here, which means i took the bad-things-happen stick and I hit Spock and Jim with it. A little angsty. Oooh, I haven't done a disclaimer in a while.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. If I did, Spock would have taken his shirt off in the last movie.**

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Spock had thought, before, that there was no one for him. All his childhood, it had been so. A childhood spent much in the company of his parents, but more often alone. He learned to value studying more than the conversation of his peers. Conversation between himself and the other Vulcan children had been stilted; the products of their parent's attitudes and their own bigotry. The children feared him, and as when they could not best him, they learned to hate him. Hate. The word had once felt, as a boy, so foreign on his tongue. As he got older, he tasted its fruits more and more; tasted tears, and sweat, and his own blood. He had learned much in school, devoured information voraciously, because he had seen the beauty of a world that could be understood if only one could discover its secrets.

Scientia potentia est. Knowledge is power. Knowledge gave him power over his world, the life in which he was humiliated, outcast, unwanted, and where the hate itself that his peers showed to him was never to be admitted openly, but linger on in undertones for years to come. His mother was rarely invited to social functions; Sarek was spared this only because of his skill in diplomacy and his position as Ambassador to Earth. Sarek could still command respect for his position if not for his choice in a wife.

Spock had no such recourse. In time, he learned that the best way to beat them at their own game, as Amanda would have said, was to give them no satisfaction. His face remained smooth and unchanging after insult upon insult was issued; taunts concerning his father's judgment, his alleged lapses of emotion, and his mixed heritage. He did not cry out when pushed aside in the halls, nor give any indication of the affront. He learned to bear the cold silences, the veiled criticism of his class work. It drove him to commit to memory information that he had yet to learn for years to come, to work harder than anyone to force the community to acknowledge his proficiency. Years were spent learning to control himself, until the rogue emotions created by snide whispers and barbed words could be pushed from his mind and never mar the blankness of his expression.

While his classmates had learned to conceal their hate, Spock had done what few men could- he had learned to control it.

But he had never thought he would find someone. Even as a child, he had understood that the freak- neither fully human nor Vulcan- was not to have the companionship of a life partner. He had had to go it alone; it was not unreasonable for him to think that the pattern should continue. And it had- until the events of two years ago, in the Narada incident. In Nyota Uhura, Jim Kirk, and even the doctor, he had finally found that which he had been searching for- friends. And he was content with that. It was more than he had had reason to expect.

But over time, the nature of his and Jim's relationship transformed. At first adversaries, they had formed an uneasy friendship, which, improbably and to the surprise of friends and coworkers alike, had blossomed. But then, something had changed. A subtle difference.

He had begun to care more than he should.

And now it had shifted again- the tight knit of their friendship colored by something else, something as foreign to him as he had been to the children of Vulcan. A heavy feeling weighing him down, a quickening of his heart that made him feel as if he were finally awake, yet minutes from death.

Attraction.

Affection.

The dual emotions surely account for what Spock does, there in the Captain's quarters, minutes after Jim's breathing has slowed into a gentle rhythm. It is time he left and returned to his post, yet he hesitates there, at the door, and then turns back.

He walks to the side of the bed, and looks down at the man lying there, the person who so many depend on, the human who bewilders him and understands him like no being he has ever met before. A strong-willed human, an expressive and eloquent speaker and a good man; and yet curiously fragile. A man who is, even by human accounts, prodigiously outgoing and open, but yet chooses to speak little about many aspects of his personal life.

Jim lies on his back, his arms loose at his sides. His face is relaxed for the first time in days, flushed from sleep, and his golden hair is endearingly sticking up in odd places due to him unconsciously running his fingers through it in frustration during negotiations. Spock's eyes wander along the line of Jim's jaw, noting the faint swath of stubble, and the white line of a long-ago scar.

His eyes move lower, and when he catches sight of the unmistakably high polished shoes, Spock, without conscious thought, carefully begins the strenuous process of undoing the laces (Jim, it appears, is fond of double-knotting).

Holding his breath, the Vulcan eases off his shoes, setting the pair at the foot of the bed. He removes his socks, placing them near, and stands up.

Sadness tickles the back of his throat. Spock breathes shallowly, watching his friend, and now so much more to him, slumber. But it does not do to dream-he must return to his post and continue living the way he has always done- to the best of his ability. Jim-no, the Captain- must never learn of this. And so, with one last look at his friend, Spock leaves. He leaves, his thoughts in turmoil. _He wishes his esteem ran no deeper for Kirk than any other, but it is not so._

He has always thought that there was no one for him. Now it seems he is mistaken, but it matters little. He is certain the Captain does not return his feelings.

As he steps onto the bridge, he composes his face once more, and settles the fast rhythm of his heart.

It does not do to dream, he tells himself.

_It does not do to dream._

_

* * *

_

Reviews to me are like hyposprays to Doctor McCoy. I could live without 'em, but they give me that extra spring in my step.

Come on, that Review button is lonely. It wants to be used.


	8. The Best Friend

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everyone! I have lots of news to tell you, and I'm really excited! Ok, first things first- I'm going to attempt to stick to a one chapter per week updating schedule. However, that said, this month is going to be terribly busy, and I apologize in advance if my posting takes a bit longer than that. College applications are a bitch.  
**

**Secondly, the most important piece of news- I know I'm rambling, so hold in there everyone, and i know my author's notes for this chapter are shamelessly massive- **

**"Expectations" has undergone a title change. Obviously.  Let me know what you think about the title change, okay? Hopefully it doesn't confuse anyone. :) I have a theme going for this story, and i feel that "The Moment" will more accurately reflect the plot.**

**Thirdly…I have a confession. (dramatic organ music in the background). I, moviesaremagic, have a review problem. I compulsively stalk my review page for days after I post, just hoping for feedback. Please enable my addiction- drop me a line and let me know what you think. All you silent readers out there- yes, you!- just a few words would make my day. Review? And for all of my fabulous regular reviewers, i want to tell you that you absolutely rock. Your feedback inspires me to keep writing and makes me jump up and down and squeal like a Justin Bieber fangirl. Some pre-slash here on Jim's part, laddies and lasses! (YAY!)  
**

**Shout out to ShamelessSpocker (I ADORE your pen name, by the way), MyriadProBold, droopydog, Fallchild92, MeEksiNs, and the countless others who reviewed.**

**Hiding in the Shadow, your review made me laugh: _"No! It does do to dream, Spock! It does!"_ **

**Lady Merlin, your review was so nice I got a little teary eyed. :)  
**

**And without further ado:  
**

The Best Friend

Jim Kirk is in a good mood. He's slept for almost sixteen hours straight, Bones is far too self satisfied that his little plot succeeded to be truly angry, and negotiations are finished. He takes a long, hot shower, puts on a clean uniform, and arrives at the bridge almost ten minutes before his shift starts, thrumming with energy, eyes bright.

(He isn't whistling, but it's a close thing.)

His crew arrives just as he finishes polishing up his Captain's log from the previous night. (He doesn't even remember making it, to be honest. Apart from the garbled official report, there's also approximately 39 seconds of the recording that he, in his sleep-deprived state, designated to discussing how penguins are always snappily dressed. Something about penguins and their aquatic friends and...formal wear? Sometimes Jim worries a little about the inner workings of his mind.)

For a few minutes each morning, as the crew trickles in, the Bridge resounds with greetings and conversation. This in itself is not a problem- extraneous conversation topics generally drop off a few minutes after duties begin. Jim has never had any difficulty with it previously- the crew maintains their professionalism in spite of this regular period of "talk time". He sees no reason to not allow a few quiet moments. But this is another story. On this morning, everyone starts talking _all at once_. With the completion of their last assignment, everyone seems to feel the need to talk. And talk at extremely high decibels. And with nearly ten people on the bridge, the noise level isn't merely disquieting- it's deafening.

"Feeling better, Keptain?" That's Chekov.

Then Spock walks quickly onto the Bridge, arriving uncharacteristically nearly fifteen seconds late-

"Course laid down," Sulu announces formally before leaning back in his chair, a sly smile spreading over his face. "I enjoyed your impression of a narcoleptic-"

And then Jim notices that Spock's hair is, most unusually, out of place. Almost genuinely messy. And for no reason he can fathom, it's incredibly, _illogically_ (oh gods he's been spending too much time around his first officer), distracting-

His thoughts are interrupted by Scotty, stepping off the lift, a smudge of what looks like axle grease across his cheek, a well-worn pair of pliers in one hand and a smudged PADD in the other.

"You'll be needing to take a look at this, Captain, a bit of an electrical malfunction' down on Deck Three, Johnson surveyed it and we've got a few unusual readins', see 'ere-"

Spock, face growing steadily blanker in response to the commotion, shifts in a way Jim knows is from nerves. (Spock hates both noise and crowds. Won't say it as much, but it's true.)

Jim responds, but no one can hear him. In fact, he can't hear them that well either. Lipreading is the only reason he is making sense of any of this. Frowning slightly, he tries to shout over the clamor.

The few people whose attention he manages to catch simultaneously mouth "What? I can't hear you."

He runs one hand through his hair in frustration.

"Spacial anomaly detected in flight path three-zero-zero, rerouting course-" drones Ensign Ka'wids'ing, the new Science intern working under Spock, not once looking up from her holoscreen. She attempts to raise her voice to be heard over the ruckus- unfortunately everyone else is doing so too.

And Spock's hair is still so oddly (a quiet voice whispers the word "endearingly" in the back of his mind, but that voice is _very_ quickly ignored) in a state of disarray-

Jim's head is starting to hurt. Quite badly. Maybe it's a migraine. Either that or a very large, very vicious brain eating slug that has decided to make a snack of his frontal lobe.

"Detection of anomaly in subspace sector two, quadrant six alpha charlie-"

Won't everyone just be quiet?

"an' the nacelles on the lower deck need some minor repairs-"

Spock's mouth tenses into a line-

"...bravo, second sector approaching east, readouts maintaining typical substructure-"

**_"DESIST."_**

The force of that one word is such that the entire Bridge, stunned, shuts their mouths. (Even Jim. In how long they've worked together, he hasn't heard Spock raise his voice maybe more than four or five times. And considering that one of those times was when Spock was fighting a horta to the death, that's saying a lot.)

Surprised though he may be, he catches Spock's eye (_do not look at his hair_) and dips his head slightly. _Thank you. _

Jim, lifting his eyes to the ceiling momentarily in gratitude, seriously considers raising his salary.

"Yes, Commander?" He says, in as normalish a tone as he can muster. Apart from the newfound headache, he's gotten plenty of rest. He really shouldn't be feeling this...discombobulated.

Jim's never before found Spock's hair to be that eye catching. A typical Vulcan hairstyle, and nothing of interest- just an average physical attribute of the man that he now considers one of his best friends. Then again, he hasn't seen it all rumpled, off-duty, kinda-adorable before.

On second thought, maybe he does need more sleep.

"We've received our orders from Starfleet, Sir," Spock relays. There's a momentary shift in his expression as Jim looks over, startled from his thoughts, and it's gone so quickly he's left only with a fading memory and an unfocused feeling of apprehension. But then he puts the pieces together. That micro-expression hints that once again, they are receiving their orders from _her_. And just like that, his good mood disperses.

His newly acquired headache, following the unspoken rules of the universe, does not.

He turns to his pilot, jaw tightening instinctively, and tries to school his features into something resembling civility . Not until he is again under control does he venture to speak. It comes out unnaturally calm.

"On the display, please, Sulu." Sulu's fingers fly over the keyboard, and the holo flashes to life, Admiral Kates onscreen.

All on the Bridge stiffen reflexively, controlling their expressions. Uhura's hands tighten into fists. The face they see is no friend of theirs, if the last few missions were anything to go by. Flagship duties are meant to be varied; jack of all trades missions. A mix of science, experimentation, observation, negotiations, trolling, peace-keeping, etc... But over the last few months, they've been ordered to form treaties with some of the most hostile planets known to the Federation. Thiristher in particular was a nasty place; the so called "tribal carnival planet". (Chekov now has an irrational fear of clowns, and a deservedly, completely rational fear of poison-tipped arrows.) And, in addition to the high-risk missions, the crew of the Enterprise is long overdue for shore leave. They haven't had a vacation in almost a year and a half- the last two scheduled were canceled by "the admiralty". Three guesses as to who.

_The bitch has it out for us_, thinks Uhura, in an an uncharacteristic expression of savagery. _She still can't let go of Carigime II- when we had to swoop in and clear up her fucking mess with the High Council when her goddamned crew went ass over teakettle._

A sharp woman with a shock of cloud gray hair, Kates shows no warmth towards any of the crew. Instead, she addresses Kirk alone, with the sort of sneer generally reserved in Starfleet for mutineers, high-collared dress uniforms, or having to eat something at a dignitary dinner that looks and smells like cat food.

With her high cheekbones and thin face, she is exactly the sort of person you might describe snidely as a stick-up-the-ass. Of course, in more polite circles of conversation, you might say butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Either way, there is no denying that the woman is utterly devoid of anything resembling an amiable personality.

"Admiral Kates." That quiet tone in the Captain's voice, somewhere between cordiality and danger, raises the arm hair of all humanoids present.

"Captain Kirk." The way she forms his name- precise, clipped, slower than normal speech- does not bode well.

"Negotiations with the dignitaries of Isiay are complete," Kirk says smoothly, his face still. "You will find my initial statement finalized and the two subsequent reports filed."

A dismissive grunt is the only answer. The woman's gray eyes flash.

"I wish to discuss a matter concerning your actions and those of your crew on Isiay." At his lack of reply, she elaborates.

"Your _misconduct_."

There is movement out of the corner of Jim's eye, and Spock is at his right, hands in their customary position behind his back, eyebrows narrowed minisculely in concentration. His first officer leans forward slightly; their shoulders brush.

"I am uncertain as to what it is you are referring, Admiral. Our crew has acted in accordance with all standard Starfleet customary procedures, including the Directives. Contact with the life forms of Isiay was not established until it had been noted and verified that their technology had reached a level of sophistication at which they had become capable of interstellar spaceflight."

"The Prime Directive is not what has been violated, Commander," Kates declares coldly, looking much as if she wish it had been. The nasty emphasis she puts on the word "Commander" is anything but respectful, and Jim feels a cold surge of anger that even steady breathing can not entirely dilute.

He does not look away from her stare; Spock steps minutely closer to him, posture unyielding, until the lengths of their arms are nearly touching. The simple gesture, like so much of what his friend tells him, is meaningful in its silence. They've never needed words to understand each other. And this, this little nothing but definitely something, speaks as clearly to him as if it had been spoken out loud.

_I am here._

There, the Captain and his First, best friends, they stand together- partners in their efforts.

"By all means," Jim says softly, raising his eyebrows, and the reserved force of his words is a promise-

"_Enlighten us_."

* * *

** Author's Note: Reviews to me are like nacelles and warp engines to Scotty- he could physically survive without them, but it would be a very depressing existence. Ok, so i got the wierdest idea for a cartoon today- imagine the Bridge. Each member of our beloved bridge crew has become a pastry- a walking, talking pastry. Uhura is a croissant. Chekov is a blueberry muffin. Spock is a steaming slice of herbed bread. Sulu is a yummy strawberry tart. **

**And Scotty is a** "large almond biscuit, made dry and crunchy through cutting the loaf of dough while still hot and fresh from baking in the oven.** " (thanks wikipedia!) Haha. That was a hint. Anyway...  
**

**Seated at their various workstations, busy with the problem at hand, a speech bubble comes out of Uhura's headset- the Captain is on the planet they are orbiting, in trouble of a nefarious kind! Oh no! What will he do? So Kirk (who has now become a delicately frosted Cinnamon bun, by the way) is freaking out on the other line. What is yelling into his communications device as the planet is imploding/ winged creatures are attempting to tackle him and take him to their lair? wait for it... wait for it...**

**"Beam me up, BISCOTTI!"**

If you laughed at my ridiculous pastry joke, review. If you have no idea what i am going on about, review. If I just made you crave sweets, review.

Love, moviesaremagic


	9. The Understanding

**Author's Notes:**

**The mystery of Spock's deliciously disheveled hair: EXPLAINED!  
**

**Fallchild92- oh my god, you're thinking about drawing me a picture? That would be AMAZING.**

**Lady Merlin- I know, those hortas really did look like food! To me they looked like giant, territorial pancakes lol. I was so mad when one leapt on Spock, I was like "PANCAKE OF EVIL- FREE SPOCK RIGHT NOW OR I WILL ADD BLUEBERRIES TO YOU AND EAT YOU WITH SYRUP!"**

** Plot: This is Spock's morning, up until he leaves to go to the Bridge, where something with Admiral Kates (though he doesn't know it yet) is about to go down...haha. I'm kind of awful, posting his POV of the day in two chapters. It's going to get interesting, folks. Kates is a nasty piece of work.  
**

The Understanding

_They are walking together, him and the Captain, in the bottom of a ravine. It is narrow; not wide enough for two to stand abreast, and so they walk one ahead of the other, Jim taking the lead. As Spock notes the layers of rock and their color and textual differences, Jim laughs, taking his arm, pulling him along. Convincing him._

_"It's not far. We can come back later to document..."_

_The chasm twists and turns ahead of them, and rises thousands of feet past their heads. The only way out is through, but he doesn't know where they are going, only that he follows regardless. Air moves through the ravine, touching their faces, moving their hair. The warm wind brings with it the fragrant scent of honeysuckle, laced with the dry aroma of heat and dust. Spock is no stranger to heat nor deserts; the sight, though unlike Vulcan, should invoke pleasant memories in the similarities that it does share with his perished home planet._

_But instead the wind brings fear to him. There is something different about it, something wrong._

_It's not a smell, not a sound- he's trying to explain even as his friend goes around a bend, momentarily lost from sight- they should turn around, they should not walk further-_

_And that's when he realizes it, realizes what he's forgotten to understand. Spock turns the corner, already calling out an alarm-_

_But it's too late, because Jim is already gone._

_And he's running- because he already knows what he will find._

Spock sits up in his bed, eyes wide. He blinks back sweat from his eyes and pushes his damp hair back from his face with an unsteady hand, not caring about the unkempt result. His blanket lies twisted and discarded on the floor. He breathes fast; his hands fall from his forehead and clutch the sheets, white knuckled; an inappropriate, unconscious gesture of emotion.

In the depths of his fear, he cannot bring himself to care.

Rarely does he experience night terrors- yet when he does he is able to control his fear; rationalize it until he is aware that the situation he is experiencing is plausibly unlikely, and that his experience of it is unreal. He imposes order on such dreams; rearranges them lucidly until the unpleasant stimuli ceases to affect him.

This time, he could not-for the simple reason that the fear projected in this dream is a rational one, a fear that has credibility, probability. A fear that in the world of his dream he could not seem to control. The missions lately have been dangerous. Two men were critically injured on Thiristher. McCoy's medical expertise proved influetial in saving them, but-

But.

_It is useless to ruminate on events that have not occurred. _

He does not move for almost five minutes. Instead, he regulates his breathing patterns, reaching for his meditative center, seeking to calm himself.

The terror only slightly abates. It is the wild fear of loss; the sudden feeling of wrongness in the air as a mother realizes her child has wandered off in a crowded place; the keen, desperate ache after the passing of a loved one. It is the panic of bad news; the crushing sensation that something irreplaceable has disappeared forever, taken to a place he can never follow.

His blood burns. His hands tingle. The images of the canyon haunt him. The smell of honeysuckle lingers in his thoughts, and sickens him. And the heat of the gorge and the echoes of their footsteps on the rock reminds Spock only too much of another. Of another who he watched, who he was too late to save. But Jim still lives. The unthinkable has not occurred. His friend lives. He comforts himself with this, reminding himself of reality, attempting to detach himself from the realm of sleep where all things terrible seem possible.

Jim is alive. He focuses on this, and his relief is overwhelming.

A faint memory, lapped in love, swims through his mind, of his mother's voice, comforting him as a child.

_It was only a dream, sweetheart. It was only a dream._

Standing, Spock crosses the room and lifts a framed picture from where it rests on the table. It is not a holocube, but an actual printed photograph, framed in dark wood, its surface protected by a thin layer of glass.

Underneath a wood veranda, her hair swept into her face by the wind, Amanda smiles, Sarek at her side. Her brown eyes are alight with joy and warmth- that she does not bother to conceal.

His heart aches.

_"This is one of the few photographs left, Spock,"_ she had said, love and nostalgia mingling in her voice. _"Holo's are replacing everything, aren't they?"_

He misses the sound of her laugh.

Replacing the photograph with care, his eyes lift from her face to the chronometer on his bedside table.

He has exactly five minutes to prepare for his shift. Anxiety seizes him once again, then irritation. Both emotions are hurriedly overlaid with a prepared sense of calm. Disregarding a morning meal, he dresses methodically, fingers pausing and clumsy as he laces his boots. This simple action reminds him again of the Captain, and of the previous night.

At this thought, of Jim, his mind finally settles.

Every man must know what he is capable of. What he can and can't do. He must understand his limitations and his greatest strengths, and be willing to examine them, in all their detail, whether they prove a source of pride or of shame. Spock acquaints himself with his fear. He mulls it over, tastes the flavor of it, accepts that it will not change. He makes friends with it, understanding it is to be from now on an ever-present companion. But if he understands it, he can move past it, although he knows it will never truly leave. Spock is afraid for his friend. But with the fear comes determination. He will _not_ allow the Captain to be killed in duty, out of error, from angry hands and clouded thoughts and cruelty.

As he leaves his quarters, his gaze rest once more on the image of his mother.

He has lost Amanda, one of the people he cared for most in the universe.

He cannot bear to lose the other.

* * *

**Reviews to me are like sandwiches to Scotty. We LOVE them. Nuff said.**


	10. The Determinant: Part One

The Determinant: Part One

* * *

He is preoccupied. Apart from his [newly stressful] private life, a message is due in from Starfleet today. Orders that he may logically deduce will be coming from her. And so, deep in thought, Spock is unprepared for what awaits him as the lift doors to the bridge open.

The noise assaults him; many people speaking all at once, in various volumes ranging from something suitable for a bedside manner [something which Dr. McCoy would be well advised to adopt], to a volume often employed when screaming something highly deragatory at one's cheating spouse. The captain is at the center of the throng, raising his hands, trying to quiet them. Judging by the growing amount of noise, he is unsuccessful. However, although besieged on all sides, the Captain is alert; he stands strongly, shoulders back, full of new energy. Once again, he exudes that calm sense of power that is particular to him- the ability to command, to do that which appears initially impossible.

_He slept well,_ a voice intones inside his head. The errant thought is instantly dismissed.

"Course laid down," is Sulu's interjection into the tumult. "I enjoyed your impression of a narcoleptic-"

Sulu is then interrupted by Mr. Scott, appearing from the lift. He attempts to get the Captain's attention by gesturing wildly in the air, wielding what Spock sees to be a pair of dented pliers.

"You'll be needing to take a look at this, Captain, a bit of an electrical malfunction' down on Deck Three, Johnson surveyed it and we've got a few unusual readins', see 'ere-"

Scott points with a grubby finger at the PADD indicated, as the Captain's lips move. Few seem to notice; all involved in said ill-timed conversation do not cease their efforts to communicate, nor to communicate in such an exceptionally loud manner.

_(Unprofessional_, is the voice's snide contribution. Would that this voice would desist.)

"I can't hear any of you," Jim states loudly, glancing from person to person.

Spock sees no comprehension on any crewmember's face- it appears that, due to his superior hearing, he is the only one at the present time who can hear what Jim is saying. A curious circumstance.

"In fact, _I_ can't even hear myself." Jim says conversationally, in his normal speech range. "If it weren't for the fact that I knew what I was going to say before I said it, I too would be totally in the dark."

Spock's lips twitch before he can stop himself.

And suddenly, as if in response to the movement, the Captain's eyes, sharp with intent, come to rest on him-those inhumanly colored eyes that separate truth from fiction. But as soon as Spock meets the stare from across the room, he breaks it. He looks away.

And Spock feels, not sees, the Captain's attention intensify upon him before it is diverted, when Jim turns back to the masses and tries again.

The few people whose attention Jim manages to catch simultaneously mouth "What? I can't hear you." The Vulcan watches, for what appears to be the first time, as a glimmer of exasperation crosses the Captain's face.

Spock speaks also, but his voice is lost to the crowd; the crew does not respond.

"Spacial anomaly detected in flight path three-zero-zero, rerouting course-" says Ensign Ka'wids'ing.

Another glance between them, and his friend appears to be studying him-

"Detection of anomaly in subspace sector two, quadrant six alpha charlie-"

The noise is overpowering. His thoughts, more so.

"an' the nacelles on the lower deck need some minor repairs-"

_Jim._

"...bravo, second sector approaching east, readouts maintaining typical substructure-"

_blue eyes-_

_**"DESIST."**_

Even as the word leaves his mouth, he does not know who he truly imparts it to- the squabbling ensigns, the stunned crew- or himself. He does not dwell on it, instead observing the slack jaws of his coworkers.

The Captain catches his eye, and the man's usual undecipherable smile turns to one of gratitude, imparted in the briefest of expressions.

_Thank you. _

A slow blink is his acknowledgement as the Captain addresses him.

"Yes, Commander?"

"We've received our orders from Starfleet, Sir," Spock relays, blank-faced.

Kirk turns to Sulu, expression neutral.

"On the display, please, Sulu." And Admiral Kates appears onscreen.

Without emotion, Spock notes the crew's reactions, seeing tension in the set of jaws and anger in the positioning of their bodies. Defensive. Hostile. In spite of her rank, Spock can admit he holds no regard for the Admiral. Kates is a "loose cannon"- leaving destruction in her wake more often than not, by saying one thing here and not saying something there, carefully manipulating, pushing people together into chaos or pulling them apart as coldly as if they were strands of string. Picking at the heart of things, a carrion bird; her cold anger restricted only by regulations.

"Admiral Kates."

"Captain Kirk."

The two form each other's names with careful hatred.

"Negotiations with the dignitaries of Isiay are complete," Kirk says smoothly, his face still. "You will find my initial statement finalized and the two subsequent reports filed."

Spock, watching her face, sees triumph. Triumph where it should not exist.

"I wish to discuss a matter concerning your actions and those of your crew on Isiay." They do not speak, forcing her to continue.

"Your _misconduct_."

Coldness takes him over. He is not even conscious of moving to the Captain's side- but when he notices again, it is of no consequence. The coolness of Jim's shoulder against his only lends to the coldness of his heart, the ice that says he will do anything to protect the man beside him. And he speaks to her only when he is sure of his own voice, that it shall not betray him. He speaks without inflection, without interest, without curiosity. To react to her is to please her, to satisfy her expectations. He will do neither.

"I am uncertain as to what it is you are referring, Admiral. Our crew has acted in accordance with all standard Starfleet customary procedures, including the Directives. Contact with the life forms of Isiay was not established until it had been noted and verified that their technology had reached a level of sophistication at which they had become capable of interstellar spaceflight."

"The Prime Directive is not what has been violated, _Commander_," Kates declares, and the Captain's breathing accelerates. Spock steps closer.

"By all means," Jim says softly, "_Enlighten us_."

"The dilithium crystals deposits," she breathes.

No one on the bridge moves.

"They're not mentioned in the report, are they?"

"Which deposits?" The captain inquires politely. "I'm terribly sorry..._Natalia_..."his voice caresses every syllable- "...but I don't seem to remember there being any."

In the stunned silence that follows, Uhura wonders, for perhaps the billionth time in her career, if the Captain knows what he's doing. And after that, regardless of whether he's just doomed them all, she gives him an (entirely mental) round of applause.

The youngest Captain in Starfleet history has just called one of the highest ranking, biggest stick-up-her-ass Admirals in the fleet by her first name.

_James Tiberius Kirk_, Uhura thinks with grudging fondness.

_You are one brave, dumb, doomed son of a bitch_.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: 5/20/2011**

**To Any Readers:**

**Hello, this is moviesaremagic. It is my deepest regret to say that this story has been discontinued. My personal life took me away from it for a long time, and my head is a very different place than it was when I began it. I'm dissatisfied with where I took the story, and I feel like I can't finish it as I've written it. Call me old-fashioned, but I never wanted to be the kind of author that discontinued their fics, because we've all had that experience of reading something for a while only to have the person stop writing it. I like to be the kind of writer where if I post something here, it will be finished. Unfortunately, this fic has been officially discontinued. I am currently working on a massive rewrite, but will not be posting it until I am sure it will be completed.**

**With regret, and with my utmost apologies to all reviewers, collaborators, and betas who helped this story blossom. Your advice and support were wonderful, and I thank you.**

**~moviesaremagic**


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